The Role
by B does the write thing
Summary: Molly is coerced into attending a formal costume ball in the line of duty. Sherlock/Molly
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes:**

_This is AU as of Season 3; I do not own or claim any rights to the characters, I simply enjoy borrowing them from their series occasionally._

_This was originally published when I had no idea how to work and I wound up uploading an old, outdated version. I recently corrected it and formatted it to better fit the site. _

_I am afraid I do not have a Beta/editor and if you see any mistakes, please leave a note and I'll change them all while praising your sharp eyes. _

"No, please, I really couldn't," Molly choked out, edging away. She looked down, coloring slightly as years of shy insecurities bubbling up threatened to choke the air out of her.

The chill of the morgue had no apparent effect on the statuesque woman before her and as on cue Molly shivered. She wore turtlenecks and cardigans and warm wool trousers, never took of the white coat of her profession and she was always sniffling. This woman had on only a sheath dress and was coolly regarding Molly as if this was her office.

"Ms. Hooper," the black clad figure in front of her purred, literally purred, " I'm afraid that's not an option."

Who actually spoke like that, Molly wondered to herself. The woman quirked an eyebrow at her, almost as if in response to Molly's silent question.

Oddly disquieted, Molly felt her breaths coming in shorter faster spurts. She attempted to find something to do with her hands which she had suddenly become very aware of. She crammed them in the pocket of her lab coat, crinkling the cough drop wrappers discarded there.

"Sorry," she hedged," But I'm afraid I don't understand why you need me-"

The figure in front of her continued on, "It is a black tie affair for the hospital and as you are… associates, shall we say, with Mr. Holmes- you will be attending as the representative of the hospital's morgue."

Molly flexed her fingers, rubbing her fingertips across her knuckles, trying to think of something to say but as usual, anxiety robbed her of her vocabulary and left her a silent, clumsy mess. She kept her eyes fixed firmly on the microscope in front of her and drew a deep breath, gathering herself to be firm.

"Actually Dr. Cooper is the head of the department and attends all galas and events as a representative for the morgue," she reached out to center the petri dish on the scope and bent her neck down to examine the dish under the microscope, effectively cutting out the interloper as best she could. Molly could still feel her standing there, watching her, and rambled on, "It's said he's often the life of the party which is awfully funny, you know- considering…"

Molly offered a tentative smile at her joke. The woman in front of her raised her brows at Molly in silent commentary at the failed joke. Ah well, Molly thought, that's what I get for making a morbid joke.

She felt oddly resentful of the stranger- and of _him_. This was the second beautiful and intimidating woman who had crashed into her work space and made her feel insignificant with hardly a word.

The other one had been dead for god's sake and still had made Molly feel all of a clumsy fifteen. It had taken her forty minutes to clean up post autopsy. She had to conduct a running mantra of "Molly, you idiot" the entire time to prevent herself from crying into the body cavity during autopsy.

"I believe," Molly continued, "that you will find he or one of the board directors will be more than adequate to represent our division." She adjusted the lens and the slide bloomed to life before her in the microscope, bursts of lines and colors where before all had been blurry, disjointed and fuzzy.

After a beat, Molly felt she had been a bit more curt than necessary and she turned back, adding, "Thank you for the invitation but I will not be available to attend."

"Ms. Hooper, you misunderstand. You will not be in attendance at to your own pleasure." Molly glanced up hesitantly, found the woman staring at her, calmly.

She continued, "You have worked here since your graduation and have been regularly written up for various misdemeanors and hospital rule violations. Your last review- did you know that Dr. Cooper and the board had voted on ending your tenure here?"

Molly sat down, hard. The stool screeched a bit at the suddenness but Molly didn't hear it. Her heartbeat was thundering in her ears.

Of course she had known she was breaking hospital policy. She knew the second he first had shown up with a scientific question and no name tag. She had known full well she was violating heath codes the time he took his first body part away in a glass container.

But St. Bart's was a teaching hospital, she had rationalized. And Sherlock had been doing such important work….

Lies, of course. She wasn't capable of saying no to him. He had blown in through the door and she had frozen like a deer in the headlights, staring at him. He had cocked his head at her, narrowed those eyes in thought and gave one sharp nod.

"Right," he said. "I'll need a middle age man who died of cardiac arrest, no cancerous tissues or diabetic history."

She had blinked furiously, coloring and her mouth had opened and closed on its own violation but all words had abandoned her in his entrance. She felt the blood coloring in her face and her eyes widened at him as she tried to get control of herself in the face of this…perfect male specimen.

He didn't notice. He was staring around the lab in obvious interest, before strolling over to the nearby microscope table and lifting his trench coat tails, seating himself on it. He started to unwrap his scarf before looking back at over at her and asking, "Well?"

She hadn't gotten his name until the fourth visit. _("Why would you need to know my name to give me the manifest of yesterday's corpses?")_

And she didn't realize he was in no way connected to the hospital until the tenth when a furious Dr. Cooper and an older man with silver hair and a younger woman entered asking for the on duty pathologist.

The older detective, DI Greg Lestrade, was surly and rude at first but he softened when he realized she was scared out of her mind. The younger detective seemed bored by the whole proceeding and tapped her foot impatiently for the duration of the meeting. When they left, Dr. Cooper had sent her home and she had been sure she was going to be sacked.

But she had come to work the next day and Sherlock was back at his station, acutely expressing his annoyance at her not having proper tools for exhumation on hand.

She had never asked why he needed exhumation tools and Dr. Cooper had never spoken to her regarding the matter again. She continued to allow Sherlock access to the lab and any specimens he showed interest in.

"Ms. Hooper, my employer was the one who contacted Dr. Cooper and the hospital board and intervened on your behalf. This is not an invitation, suggestion, or reward." Molly's gaze grew fuzzy and she felt her headband pressing against her temples, a headache building.

"Ms. Hooper," the voice deepened from its usual purr to a commanding tone. Molly straightened from her usual slouched position at the microscope to look at the woman in black. Her name had not been given….

Molly was suddenly so very tired of people with commanding presences barging in here and intimating her to the point she didn't even ask for their names… John always made a point to say hello, ask how she was doing, how her mother was getting on-

"Ms. Hooper, you will be performing a duty for the party who is responsible for your continued employment at this particular hospital, the very one who prevented you from being thrown out and discredited for your role in helping an unlicensed "consulting detective" by allowing him access to hospital property and evidence in criminal proceedings."

Molly continued to blankly stare at the visitor. The unbidden thought of "_I wonder how old she actually is_" floated across her mind before her guest took a sudden step forward and leaned down into Molly's space.

"Do we understand each other, Ms. Hooper?" She asked, but it wasn't really a question.

Molly felt ill.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Notes:**

_(Still don't own any characters, rights, or any other fancy copyrighted things.)_

Crammed into the very back of her limited closet space, a slim black garment bag hung, lost in the shadows of the recesses, pushed up against the wall by the bulky cardigans and knit sweaters that were a staple in any rational Londoner's attire.

Reaching for it, Molly pressed her cheek into the nearest hanger and winced as scratchy argyle fabric bit into her face. She hooked one fingertip around the hook and proceeded to drag it out, wheezing in victory as she stumbled back towards the bed with her prize.

Pursing her mouth to the side, Molly regarded the bag. The script down the side proclaimed the name of a very famous designer store and she had remembered the ridiculous surge of pleasure she had gotten, just from walking outside into the crowded London streets, clutching it to her chest and hurrying back home with her secret.

John had told her about the Christmas drinks that he was hosting, had asked her to come and she had been so happy to be invited, so beside herself with the joy of getting to see him….

She hadn't thought of why John Watson had possibly asked her, they were on friendly terms after all.

It wasn't until she had arrived at the party, she realized Sherlock hadn't known she was coming. She supposed John had probably never thought she would accept the invitation- and then shortly after her departure, she realized John had known full well she would accept, making it slightly less awkward for his date.

Draw hostile fire away as it were.

She had been curt with him for weeks after that. It wasn't until her April allergies started up, and Watson had handed her a handkerchief that she forgot to be cross with him. She hesitantly had asked about the young woman who had been in attendance that night and then found herself apologizing profusely when John had grimaced and shook his head.

That party had been just horrid. Sherlock's comments- his behavior and his words cutting at her until….she had just felt herself break open and her raw feelings had tumbled out, the quiet and desperate attempts to hold back the tears, the shocked silence of the room at her words and the heat in her chest abating long enough for her to realize, Sherlock looked- quite possibly for the first time in his life- shocked.

He had apologized. He had leaned in and brushed a kiss on her cheek, the smell of him engulfing her and then the night had continued. Afterwards, she had gone home, scrubbed off the makeup, tore off the dress, ripped off the jewelry and flung them into the bin.

She had fished the diamond encrusted baubles out the next morning, they hadn't been cheap. But they had yet to emerge from the jewelry box since.

The dress which she had thought rather hid her lack of feminine curves by accentuating her petite frame had been banished to the back of the wardrobe- a wine stain from her trembling fingers was left as a permanent reminder of her foolishness.

Oddly, after that night, Sherlock and red just seemed to tie together as neat as a bow on a package. The shade of deep red brought back the vivid smell of him and the fireplace, the musky smells of a yuletide eve. She was glad red was not a very common color in the hospital community- doctors and nurses much preferred neutrals and Sherlock's chosen color palette was much more dramatically dark.

She had thrown out her red lipsticks, tossed the red cardigan she had purchased at the local store, and blushed uncontrollably whenever she saw the red knickers she had bought staring at her from the bottom of the drawer after a long time between laundries.

Molly unzipped the bag and let the dress slink out of its long confinement. It had been years since that party. Sherlock had been dead. Sherlock had risen. Rather Christmas-esque.

Molly smirked as she thought of what Sally Donovan would say if she compared Sherlock Holmes to a Christ figure. Probably some scathing remark about being as dimwitted as the rest of his devoted following. Sally barely tolerated John, couldn't understand Greg's alliance with the man, looked down on Molly on principle and actively loathed Sherlock.

The black crushed velvet was as soft as she remembered it, all but the dark splotch on the left thigh where she had spilled her third or fourth glass of red wine in her nervousness when Mrs. Hudson had asked if she was seeing anyone. "After all, a girl as pretty as you, you should be beating them off dear!"

John had choked on his wine at the word choice and Greg had pounded him on the back, all while Sherlock had been in his room. She had finally left, and then the next time she saw him (_on Christmas Day of all days_) it was to identify The Woman.

The rhinestones of the dress glittered weakly in the dim overheard lighting of her flat. She had been so brazen, carting those gifts down the into the Tube, smiling at strangers, feeling lighter than she had in months- so confident of the glowing reviews of the shop girls.

"Any man who doesn't pin you to the mantel, right then and there," one had assured her, patting her back and smiling at her in the mirror, "well, he doesn't know his own mind, does he, Emma?"

"No, no!" Agreed the older woman, rushing forward with a lace brassiere and matching knickers- "And he won't be disappointed when he unwraps his gift, will he, Jane?"

She had gone to the jewelry counter after that, showing them the sparkle of the collar and requesting something to show it off- a necklace or a choker perhaps.

"No, no, dear-" the portly woman behind the counter chimed in, shaking her grey curls in emphasis- "You need to leave the dress to do its work up top- now some bracelets would work - and I have just the earrings for you- you'll be all that anyone can see for miles when I'm done with ya!"

She had spent hours, just hours getting ready that day. She had plucked her eyebrows until she had tears in her eyes, had soaked in the tub until she was almost a prune, slicked vanilla lotion on all over her newly smooth skin and then spent an hour in the mirror with a curling iron and a can of hairspray until she was convinced she was ready to slip into the dress.

And with her hair just so, she had applied her makeup, including the new tube of lipstick she had been saving. The lace under the dress felt like the real present- the real surprise.

But instead, she had thrown off her coat, found John and Greg could barely look at her without blushing and Mrs. Hudson and John's date (_what had been her name? Annette?)_ had both been too polite the rest of the night to comment on her overly formal attire.

A waste of makeup.

That's all Molly Hooper was. Which is why she never bothered really. Sherlock always noted when she did try and his little barbs only made it worse. She wanted to be noticed in the way he noticed The Woman's measurements, the way he noticed the DNA strands and the way he knew how John clenched his mouth when he was angry.

Instead, she wore her warmest sweaters, her comfiest trousers, and her most practical flats. She kept her lab in order and her life out of his. No more parties, no more attempts at coffee and lunch- Sherlock and Molly had a kinship, a trust.

And that's all.

Well, she fussed with the collar of her shirt, not all. But what happened in her private fantasies… well that wasn't anything but healthy human urges. And just because she wasn't one to run out and shack up with the first bloke willing….

She sighed, brushing the dress as she sat down on the bed next to it, hands folded in her lap and staring at the mirror propped up in the corner. A pale, mousy woman stared back at her, shoulders hunched, feet crossed at the ankles, wrinkled button up shirt and plain nondescript slacks- she looked like the most boring, saddest little woman on the planet.

She turned and looked towards the clock. In a few short hours, she was supposed to waltz into the St. Bartholomew's Annual Fundraising Gala and rendezvous with famed socialite Mary Watson.

As a result of his marriage, Molly saw less and less of John and more and more of Greg. Occasionally, she would get a sad phone call from Mrs. Hudson asking if she had seen the boys- which she usually answered in the negative. She did stop in and take tea with Mrs. Hudson, asking her about her days, about the new man she was seeing and how things were and occasionally, a loud noise would be heard from above and Mrs. Hudson would shake her in head in worry. Molly took tea with Mrs. Hudson at least once a week when she could- she knew she was lonely despite her active calendar. And Mary…

Mary was a dear- but she had her own circle. If John came in with Sherlock to the morgue on dark nights, he looked like he was half there- the excitement and annoyance that the old John Watson had whenever dealing with these cases was overshadowed by something else- sidelong glances at his phone and at the clock. Soon, Molly started to call Mary after their departure, let her know her husband was safe, would call her if they came back, the usual.

Mary had come into the morgue herself once, pale and uncertain. Molly had looked up to see the tall blonde socialite bump into a gurney and drain of color completely when the foot flopped over at the intrusion.

Molly had hustled her to the dining hall before she lost her composure, made her a cup of tea and sat with her as Mary cried and cried. She had realized she was marrying the John Watson of Sherlock Homes fame- but she had though Holmes was dead- she had thought he was dead and she sobbed even harder as she looked up at Molly with bright blue eyes, eyeliner slightly smudged but holding, as she confessed sometimes she wished he still was dead.

The next time she had seen Mary at a pub down the street from her flat, Mary had smiled tightly, obviously mortified at her previous show of emotion and they had exchanged shrill, artificial platitudes about getting together sometime.

John never mentioned anything until one night as they were leaving, he turned to Molly with a tired smile and shared, "You know Molly, she thinks the world of you."

She had nodded, jerking her head and smiling as best she could through her exhaustion and the sudden pricks behind her eyes. A sharp "John!" rang through the halls and John's tired face disappeared from the door.

Molly brushed her hair from her eyes and thought about what she should do. She couldn't wear the dress but it was her only formal wear.

She supposed she could call Mary….it wouldn't be odd or overtly suspicious for a colleague of her husband's to call…after all, no one had suspected Molly to have helped play a vital role in Sherlock's suicide.

Even in his miraculous resurrection, he had cleverly covered up Molly's participation in it. Which was why, Molly expected, she still had a job. Someone close to Sherlock knew she was a loyal and trustworthy colleague of the detective but one so far removed, so small and unimportant- that no one other than a criminal mastermind like Jim…would even notice.

She suspected Jim had only noticed her because Sherlock's frequent trips to the hospital had led Moriarty to get a job in a department where he could easily trace everyone in the building- IT.

He had probably watched for emails, noticed Molly's logging odd hours on days she wasn't on call and put the pieces together. Only someone as observant as Jim would ever notice those oddities. And then all one had to do was look at the mousy shrunken little single woman who hid from the world in her too big lab coat and her small little mouth that never quite expressed herself the way she meant to….

Which is probably why she had started blogging, she reasoned. She had followed John's and Sherlock's and in a sudden fit of bravado, she had created her own and was recklessly forthcoming on it. It had felt wonderful to sit and just write whatever popped in her head, a form of release previously unknown. And then Jim had stumbled on to it-

Well, she had just been so tickled to have been asked out by someone who had read her uncensored thoughts, who might appreciate her for her just the way she was…

She barely recognized Jim when he met at her flat to take her to dinner. She had been so flustered at the pub, drinking her wine much too quickly and knocking over her utensils onto the floor- Jim had been lovely, laughed at her terrible autopsy jokes and hadn't noticed when she gotten the piece of chicken caught in her teeth-

Of course he noticed, Moly scolded herself. She stood up, brushed off the cat hair from her trousers and shook her head clear of cobwebs. He must have laughed himself hoarse. And that charade of his when he had met Sherlock…she had thought he was just nervous, acting so oddly and fluttering about. She had even felt a warm glow of affection- someone else who let their nerves get the best of them! And then for Sherlock to throw "Gay" out over his shoulder, she had just been so cross.

When she realized she had allowed a criminal mastermind access to him…well she had been so beside herself, she hadn't gotten out of bed for two days. Not that he noticed. He didn't notice anything until the day before his fall…

A sharp knock on the door jolted Molly out of her reverie and she stood awkwardly, rooted to the spot and staring at the front door as if it was a new apparatus that just appeared.

It isn't the bloody Tardis, you ninny, she scolded herself but she remained glued to the spot, staring at as if any moment it was going to disappear.

Another knock punctuated the silence of her abode and Molly found herself shocked into action. She slipped the bolt clear, and threw open the door before she even though to check who it was.

_Molly_, she heard Greg moan, _for piss's sake- don't just throw open the door without checking to see who it is first!_

A delivery man stood before her, his hip pressing a large white box to the wall of her flat and in his other hand, a clipboard.

"Molly Hooper?" He asked, pressing the clipboard to her. She took it and signed mindlessly, her eyes never leaving the large white box he was juggling still.

"Yes?" She stuttered, brown eyes floating back to his face, her mouth dry.

"Delivery." He thrust the large box at her, and she noticed a red ribbon, fluttering as she caught it. He walked back down the hall towards the lift and Molly was left awkwardly standing in the hallway, holding a large white box with a red ribbon in the fluorescent light of the corridor.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note**

(_Hmm, I am searching for the rights for these guys on Amazon but no one appears to be selling them? Oh well, I will continue on not having any legal rights or any way to make money but just enjoying them for their own sakes.)_

The white box lay discarded on the floor, the red ribbon twisted underneath, its ends fluttering in the hot air from the box heater.

Molly Hooper gazed in silence at the object which she had pulled from the box.

The theme of tonight's gala was Movie Magic.

She had mentioned to the woman she had a black dress. She could go as Audrey Hepburn, she assured her- "All you need is a little black dress, opera gloves and pearls, and ta da," she had nervously laughed and turned as the other woman had regarded with a look she would rather not decipher in fear it would be too much akin to pity.

She had thought her Christmas dress would have been formal enough, she would have thought that even as she had walked into the gala but now…now she stared at the black Italian sheath that hung seductively down from where her night gown usually hung but which currently was residing in a puddle to the side of the door, crumped and thrown aside to make room for this…

It was the dress from _Breakfast at Tiffany's_. A recreation surely but how- how could they have- they had only had twenty four hours' notice, how did they even know her size?

She looked down at her frame. She knew she wore so many layers there was no way even Sherlock could be able to tell her actual measurements but the sleeveless floor length gown before her was tailored impeccably. Molly knew stitching, knew the art of sewing and she could tell a master had created this.

The bodice was fitted and tailored into a unique cut-out back that was almost a razorback but more rounded, more fitting to the woman's body.

_I'll never be able to wear a bra with this_, she briefly thought, her fingers trailing down the soft fabric, touching the gathering at the waist and noticing the fabric swayed slightly, suggesting a thigh high slit.

She gulped.

"I can't….I can't wear this…"she muttered to herself, her hands clutching the black elbow length gloves made from the very same fabric which had been tucked beneath the gown. A pair of black satin flats nestled politely besides them and Molly felt an absurd thankfulness to whoever had chosen flats for her. She could barely walk in heels, she would have fallen on her face before she left the flat.

She felt her breath start to quicken and she swallowed, hard.

At the same moment the sense of overwhelming desperation to burrow into the blankets of the couch and never come out welled up in side of her, another knock rang out.

Molly turned, only to realize in her earlier daze, she hadn't properly fastened the door.

A silver haired man stood in the now ajar doorway, his fist poised mid-knock and his face amused by the swinging open door. He looked up at her, took in her hair in its curlers and her lip caught in her teeth and smiled.

"Ms. Molly Hooper, I presume?" The stranger asked. He had a high voice but it was soft and it came floating into her apartment like a melody. She looked behind her at the gown again and hesitantly nodded consent.

"Uh, yes that would be me… I mean," she shook her head in confirmation; "I'm Molly Hooper. Are you here about the…"

She wasn't actually sure what he was here for, and she cast about for the words, making small inarticulate noises as she looked about in uncertainty.

She could practically hear Greg growling at her about safety precautions.

He came inside, his rain jacket neatly folded over his arm and carrying a large case in his left hand. He placed it down, took of his black hat and placed it and the coat on the hooks she had hung by the door, before carefully turning and shutting the door behind him. Molly was breathing in short high jerks and was vaguely aware she may be hyperventilating.

"Ms. Hooper," he said and she was surprised to find him now standing in front of her. "I am Alberto De Armandi, I am here to help prepare you for your evening." He had milky blue eyes that crinkled in the corners, his smile was small but sincere and he was about a foot shorter than her.

"Oh," she murmured, sinking down into a seated position on the couch arm. "I didn't realize…"

He nodded, and she found that's all she had to say. He acquired his case and brought it to a resting place on the small coffee table beside them. He clicked open two silver latches, and tray after tray sprang forth from it like a fountain.

Lipsticks, rouges, foundations and eyes shadow jars rolled out of his case like a magician's bag. Molly found herself tracing the patterns of color and shape and jerked suddenly when a weathered hand reached out to steady her face.

"My apologies, Ms. Hooper," Alberto assured, "I didn't mean to alarm you, I just needed to check the light. You have beautiful skin, my dear, has anyone ever told you that?"

"No," she replied, eyes lifted up at him from her lashes. "I…I don't believe they have." 

"Not porcelain, more of milky rose, creamy and colored, shifting like the hues of the sun on the snow, quite angelic." Molly was too stunned to speak so she just continued to sit in silence. He seemed quite at home in her flat, he ambled over to the kitchen and took the kettle from the stove and started to fill it with the tap.

"Now, Ms. Hooper, if you would like to slip into your dress, we can begin."

What felt like hours later, Alberto pinned the last bobby pin in before he stepped back, his face a mask in concentration. He scrunched his shoulders and peered upwards through his brows and Molly raised her hand to touch her hair, slowly as if may fall apart if she was too sudden.

He shook himself a bit and smiled at her as if he had forgotten she was there, "Oh, would you like to see it? You've been so still; I had thought you had fallen asleep." He turned to get a mirror out of his pack and turning back to her continued, "Most of my models talk the entire time, about their lovers or their mothers, career or their fears- always something centered on them, always the center of their universes and expecting to be the center of mine. It was refreshing to work in silence; I almost forgot I was working on a real girl."

Molly raised a tentative hand to touch her hair as he held up the mirror. At the sight of herself, her raised hand fell limply back down to her side.

Her hair was in a tall bun, with a few wisps of hair curling about her forehead; Alberto shuffled behind her and held another mirror to the back of his creation and Molly's lips curled into a shocked but delighted smile.

Her mousy brown hair had been twisted into a French twist at the back and then reared into a large pouf bun that sat on the top of her head, her usual dull locks, shone with the product Alberto had combed in and Molly saw streaks of red and blond that she had never noticed before.

"I can't believe…" she murmured, her fingers rising back up to trace the design.

Alberto laughed, low and light, "There's plenty of hairspray in there, so you can dance all night and won't have to worry about your gentleman ruining it with a well-placed dip or two," his eyes twinkled mischievously as he added, "Please dissuade him from ruining his fingers through your hair until the ride home, however."

Molly felt her shoulders hunch down and she shook her head in a small tight nod of dissent, careful of the tower perched on her head and feeling the large bobby pin at the base of her head press into her skin.

"I'm afraid I don't…what I mean is… I'm not seeing anyone, I'm a bit of a free agent actually, not seeing anyone in particular or you know any one at all!" She felt the shrill nervous laugh fly out of her mouth, her typical tell when flustered, and she bit her lip quickly, embarrassed and ashamed.

Alberto came into view, touching her chin with the back of his hand.

"My dear, you are a woman of science, am I right?"

She nodded; he kept his hand beneath her chin.

"I can see that by the lines around your eyes, from squinting. I can see it in the way you hold your head, leaning forward, to not miss anything. I can feel it in the tenseness of your posture, as if you are always at alert, and I can sense it in the way you smile, as if you know the beauty of something lies more in its façade but it ins structure and its workings."

Molly's eyes, wide and shimmering, blinked and a small tear slid down her check, and Alberto caught it on his index figure. He lifted it up to her eyes and shook his finger, a grin splitting his pocked face and yet he was all the more handsome for it.

"No crying, my dear. I'm about to put your makeup on and I can't have you crying it off. Do we understand each other?"

She closed her eyes, hard. Her tongue slipped out to wet her small lips and she nodded tightly. When she looked back up, he was holding brushes and a smile.

"Then, we begin."

Some time passed, swirls of movement, gestures as soft as a feather across her eyelid, soft words of where to look, moments where he just stood and stared at his case in thought. and others when he barely looked but plucked something from its depths before pressing it to her face. He murmured more now that he was painting, as he called it

"I am an architect and a painter, my dear," he laughed as she blinked rapidly in instinct at the mascara wand that seemed to plunge directly at her eyes. "Relax and know you are in the hands of a true appreciator of beauty."

"Not a modest or time efficient man, however." broke in a new voice. Molly instinctively went to turn to the intrusion in her flat but a firm hand had hold of her chin and held her in place.

(Her internal Greg sighed heavily and gave up on her.)

"No, no, no, my dear," Alberto scolded at her lightly under his breath. "I was wondering when you would arrive. I believed the Gala started almost an hour past and yet I was left to pursue my masterpiece in peace, I was merely taking my time as all genius is wont to do."

Molly calmed as Alberto seemed to recognize their visitor, she had a sinking suspicion she did as well.

"You can open your eyes my dear, I only have the last finishing touches and you will be free to join your escort to the ball."

Molly's eyes fluttered open, the odd feeling of mascara caking her eyelashes made it feel like a sticky experience. She had asked Alberto not to put fakes on, she was too worried one would fall off in her wine glass…

The man before her was portly but he carried himself erect, his hand on a glistening black umbrella and his tie and jacket impeccable despite the wind that they could hear outside. He had a familiar face.

"Mycroft?" She asked, head tilting to the side and eyes narrowing in confusion. "What are you doing here?"

"Ah, Ms. Hooper. As I am sure you are aware, I take a great interest in my little brother's activities, especially the ones that have something or other to do with national security."

Molly was confused and was unaware Alberto was leaning back in until she felt the pressure against her lips. She jerked backwards, away from him and nearly toppled off the stool he had set up for her.

"Steady!" Alberto exclaimed, catching her elbow.

"No lipstick," she declared, gloved hands resting on the dark blue sleeve of Alberto's suit. "I don't wear lipstick."

Alberto looked up at her in some confusion when Mycroft's dry voice rang out," My brother, Alberto. He's a bit….blunt in his observational techniques. I believe he has a rather telling tendency to fixate on Ms. Hooper's mouth and comments on it whenever he gets the chance."

Molly was trying to prevent any tears from leaking out, so she was rather surprised to hear Alberto laugh.

"Ah, well. Everyone has his own way of paying homage."

"Homage?" Molly questioned, looking at him in disbelief. "I have a small mouth which lipstick only draws attention to in the worst possible way. I'm much rather just do some lip gloss or-"

Alberto laid his finger on her lips and she stilled. Mycroft had his phone out and was texting rapidly, ignoring the two of them altogether.

"Ms. Hooper," Alberto began.

"Molly," she corrected, and he smiled at her with genuine fondness.

"Molly," he began again, "trust an old man."

And she did. A few minutes later, he blotted her lips and stood up her up.

"Why Ms. Hooper," Mycroft drawled, "aren't you ready yet?"

She looked at him in confusion, turning to Alberto who was already packing up his case of magic behind her.

"What do you mean? I'm ready."

She looked down at the sheath which clung to her as if it was meant for her, the satin was dark and lush but it glowed invitingly in the dim light of the kitchen overhead, her hands were like small birds tucked in the satin. They seemed delicate and elegant. Her small black flats were perfectly fitted to her feet and she had spritzed perfume on in the dressing earlier.

"I was under the impression you had seen the movie _Breakfast at Tiffany's_?" Mycroft questioned. In the usual Holmes way, it came out as an insult.

It dawned on Molly the second she saw his eyes flicker to his gilded watch in exasperation.

"_Oh_, her pearls- I have my mother's but they aren't…they're not quite right-"

"I believe the ones on the vanity in your bedroom will be adequate. Please go and put them on and gather your things." Molly floated away from the two men into the bedroom and sure enough, a long necklace case from the –

Molly sat down heavily. The royal jeweler stamp faced her and she was so preoccupied with the royal seal she barely noticed the black clutch beside it. As she opened the case, the pearls glowed to life, cold to the touch as she carefully placed them around her neck and she reached back to fasten them, her neck raised and she caught her reflection in the mirror.

A lady stared back at her. A lady with her nose and cheekbones and her chin, but this lady had a presence, a command about her that Molly had only ever seen in others.

She stood slowly, and the lady in the mirror rose with her, dark brown eyes warm and bright in their black rimmed sockets. Her small mouth puckered in delight, no fear or confusion clouding her features. She glowed in the light of the lamp by her bed and the pearls were warming to her skin, falling onto the dress in waves of white.

She gathered her cell from its charger, slipped her house key into the clutch and went back to the room, her head tall, whether from pride or just the weight of the hairdo reminding her to keep her head tilted up, she couldn't say.

Alberto was standing by the door, warm smile in place and his hat back on his head. She walked over to him, noticing the slit in the fabric letting air kiss her leg in the most intimate way possible. She bent down to kiss his cheek, his spicy cologne filling her senses as she whispered, "Thank you."

"My honor," he whispered back, his skin rough under her lips.

Molly stood straight and turned to Mycroft with a smile of genuine pleasure, only to find him holding another box, a square one with a familiar seal etched into it.

"Honestly," he drawled out, eyebrow quirked in habitual amusement, "it's called _Breakfast at Tiffany's_ for a reason, I'm told."

And he flipped the box open to reveal a tiara of diamonds and silver etchings, bouncing the light of the room, and reflecting it on to the downturned face of Molly Hooper.

She almost broke her promise not to cry as Alberto slid the crowning glory into her hair.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note**

_You're still here? Oh you darling. I hope you are enjoying this even though I have no rights to this and am just writing for the pleasure of it. _

_On to the party!_

"Repeat it back to me."

Molly nodded as the lights of London flitted past them as they drove towards the Gala hall.

"I'm to find Mary, socialize for a bit and then she will introduce me to Fahim Yassine, a British Arabic philanthropist who is the main benefactor this year. He is a Hollywood fanatic, hence the theme, and I am to engage in conversation with him and Mary thus allowing his quarters to be searched for a missing artifact while he is sufficiently distracted."

She would have been biting her nails if she didn't have gloves on, Molly thought. Instead she was twisting them as subtly as she could, and hoping Mycroft was not as keen as Sherlock was. The way his eyes flickered over her and the window, she felt a sinking suspicion he was very like his brother but less vocal in it.

Her throat was dry and her head felt like a bowling ball. She had known they had wanted her to perform some kind of task…she hadn't realized she was to be the distraction.

She gazed out at the lights that were looming closer and realized they had arrived at the museum where the Gala was being held. Mycroft slid out of the limo and she sat paralyzed, mind whirling in terror, bile rising in her throat and the flashes of light emitting from the tinted window and the shouts of paparazzi nearly caused her to faint.

After an oddly long wait, her door opened and a hand reached in for her, she grasped it like a lifeline. With a faint squeeze, it raised her up to the flashes as the local press pushed in on them, bulbs flashing and people shouting questions.

Molly was absurdly grateful for the black sunglasses Mycroft had slid to her in the limo as they dulled the flashes a bit and no one could see her panicked eyes darting from left to right.

She took a step and the slit in her dress swished open to allow her a freedom of motion and she felt her guide take her hand and place it firmly in the crook of his-

_His very tall and thin frame._

Molly stopped dead and looked up at Sherlock Holmes who was facing the press with a bored expression on his chiseled face.

"Sher…Sherlock?" She stuttered, tilting her head up to look at him in some confusion.

"Please don't dawdle, Molly," he scolded. "Other limos are arriving."

She let him pull her forward, pressing into him to avoid the crush of people and the press that were interviewing them. She recognized a few minor members of the royal family and famous names and figures that were on various charity boards including the hospital.

One Duchess was wearing the famous Eliza Doolittle Dress from _My Fair Lady_ and she smiled in unity at Molly as she walked past- "Couldn't help myself, when will I ever get the chance to wear this beautiful of a hat again?"

"Soon," Sherlock whispered, "judging from the way her daughter's swelling. A formal wedding will be thrown together in the next month or so, however they probably don't realize the boy's family is down on their luck. That's his father's suit and he's tried and played it off by dressing as some seventies mobster."

"Robert Redford. The Sting." Molly whispered, eyes locked on the stairs ahead that would lead them into the Gala event.

"Useless information aside," Sherlock muttered. Molly shook her head in resignation.

She glanced over at him, and what she had originally mistaken for his usual attire, came clearer as they came into the light.

"Why, you're Humphrey Bogart from Casablanca!" She laughed, stopping short of the stairs and spinning to face him.

A young woman dressed as Marilyn Monroe pushed past her so she stepped closer to him. He had the hat tilted low over his face and the trench coat with collars pushed upwards, stubble on his jaw with the suit of the times underneath.

Sherlock looked to his left, watched someone for a moment and then took her arm again, "We need to go inside. John and Mary should be waiting for us."

"I don't understand- I thought I was here to distract-"

"Excuse us, please," Sherlock cut her off to address a nearby Spanish couple who were dressed in regency period clothing. Molly barely kept her balance as Sherlock tugged her past them and into the main entrance of the museum.

It had been decorated with glittering stars and orbs. The room's natural acoustics bounced and blended the crowd's noise with the bands orchestral music so a dim cacophony of sound rang throughout hall- merriment and cheer. The cold of London faded behind them as the warmth of the hall enveloped them.

Sherlock kept his hat tilted low but his eyes darted around as he maneuvered Molly to the point beside the large staircase where the band had set up. He pulled her to his side and placed his arm around her in a masculine signal of possessiveness, and bent his head down to her level as if whispering.

To the outside it would appear they were lovers wrapped in each other swaying to the music, drunk off the magic of the gala which had been in full swing for at least two hours now, stealing some time apart.

On the inside, Molly's face was smashed into the starchy collar of his suit. She was suffocating in the heat of his jacket. His hat brim was poking her hair and she was worried it would mess it up irrevocably when he chuckled, his entire chest vibrating with it.

Molly then realized she was pinned to Sherlock Holmes and had been too busy worried about suffocating she hadn't appreciated it. She was just taking the time to enjoy the scent of him as well as the firmness of said torso when he spun away and strode off without her into the crowd.

She was left quite alone on the outskirts of the party, but in clear sight of everyone due to her proximity with the band. She looked about a bit, trying to blend into the column work behind her when a man approached her, holding a champagne glass as a peace treaty.

"Holly Golightly, I presume?" He asked, his accent posh and crystal clear. He had a laughing voice, issuing from deep thick lips and a beautifully rich skin tone with jet black blue hair that might have been Arabic in its heritage.

She took the proffered glass, wrapping her gloved fingers around its stem, tilting it to her lips for a moment of much needed time. She gathered herself as the bubbles danced across her tongue and she opened her eyes again to face the stranger, a Hepburn smile blossoming across her face and her hand reaching out to meet his offered one.

"The man with no name?" Molly reasoned, taking in his outfit.

He tilted his cowboy hat at her in acknowledgment, his poncho draped around his shoulders and his western gear clinking as he took a step towards her. His guns in their holsters looked very real. He held himself as if he knew how to handle them.

"I am charmed by a woman who knows her spaghetti westerns," the cowboy said, lifting her gloved hand to his lips. She smiled at him over the rim of her glass and took another sip, eyes searching the audience.

"My father was a fan of westerns- he found them…liberating after long days at the office," she replied. He smiled and she noticed her had nice teeth, straight and white.

"I would run around the lawn playing cowboy and Indians- but British boarding schools aren't very keen on little Arab boys pretending to be American gunslingers- so when I was told I had the honor of choosing tonight's theme- I went with Hollywood classics. I wanted to see how many people knew American films from their precious Shakespeare."

Molly almost spilled her champagne at his wording. She turned back to her conversation partner, smiling in slight discomfort but desperate to make a go of it. If this was the target…

"And the results?" She queried. He nodded towards the dance floor.

"Plenty of Marilyns, a few Elizabeth Taylors and Grace Kellys, plenty of Paul Newmans and Elvises- but a few of them rather missed the mark with their Regency and Victorian get ups." He nodded towards a large knot of people who were trying to dance in their restricted wear and who were being openly mocked by the younger crowd of the socialites who were dressed in what appeared to be seventies disco wear and roller blades.

"I believe Hollywood has touched all genres and era," Molly responded, watching one geisha's wig slip off her head as she tried to squeeze past a large knot of civil war dressed attendees.

"Yes, but how many have touched the hearts of all the people of the world?" Molly turned back to him, to see him openly appraising her. "The Little Black Dress. Audrey Hepburn. A classic. And yet, much too understated for this lot."

"I've seen a few Audreys," she protested.

"Yes, but the princess Audrey and the Fair Ladies. None dared to throw on a simple gown in fear it would reveal them as they really are- plain, insipid, uninspiring. Instead, they hide behind yards of fabric or miles of skin- look at that one over there- dressed as Barbarella. She must be freezing. And yet you stand, glowing in the simple elegance of the traditional. You are the true Audrey tonight."

"To each their own," Molly noted, embarrassment threatening to flush her red in the most un-Audrey like way. She cast about for a way to return the subject to him. "You know, a man with no name is no gentleman…"

He grinned at her in open appreciation, "But much more mysterious, wouldn't you say?"

She took another sip of her champagne, he hadn't taken the bait. She felt the liquid spreading courage through her as she easily found her tongue again, "I think American cinema is a truly inspirational theme night. How does one get the honor of choosing it, I wonder?"

He cocked his head at her, he wasn't as tall as Sherlock, he was more Greg's height but he had the same air about him as the Holmes brothers. He knew himself. He knew how others perceived him. And yet Molly Hooper of all people was carrying on a conversation with him as if she was…well as if she was The Woman of all people. She felt a shiver rake across her at the idea of it.

"Quite simple, Ms. Golightly," he said, drawling close to her, snaking his arm around her, finding the small of her back, pressing her into him, he murmured, "One donates an obscene amount of money…"

"Why, there you are Molly!" called a cheerful voice and the spell was broken. The cowboy released his grip on her and she stumbled backwards into the waiting embrace of-

"Han Solo?" Molly laughed, looking at John Watson's round face and his smug smile. Behind him, Mary was wearing a full length white gown with billowing sleeves- her dark hair pinned in the Princess Leia hairstyle that a generation had grown up wanting.

"I said I would come, but only if I got to choose the costumes," he said. Mary pursed her lips at Molly in silent commentary on her forced attire but she stepped in front of him and took Molly's arms in open admiration.

"You look stunning, Molly!" She exclaimed, her eyes raking over the jewels but the small glance she shot John made the hair on Molly's neck stand up. Something was up.

"Of course, she is," John nodded. His eyes fixed on Molly but his body language tuned in to the man behind her. "After all, she is quite the star our Molly."

Molly forced a smile and dipped her head to him, but did not correct him. She wasn't sure what role she was meant to be playing but pathologist did not seem to be the role and she knew usual old Molly Hooper would never do.

"Ah, Holly is really a Molly," said her mystery man and he came to her side, placing his hand on her elbow, and reaching out to John with his free hand, "I am Fahim- or Bill to my friends."

"Bill?" John asked, his smile not reaching his eyes. Fahim picked up on it and switched his attention to Mary.

"Yes, I'm afraid as a young man I was obsessed with all things American- Bill was a play on my family's affluence and my obsession with American culture. Americans refer to their currency as dollar bills and their current president at the time was-"

"Bill Clinton," John interrupted, looking Fahim in the eyes, his arm around Mary's waist. "Yes, I'm familiar with world politics."

"Are you in Parliament?" Fahim asked, his tone polite but disinterested. He started tracing his fingers along the bare skin above Molly's gloves. She willed herself not to twitch even though it was a bit ticklish.

"No, I-," John started to ground out but Molly found herself interrupting the terse relay.

"John is a retired army doctor, he just opened a new office over by the City. This is his wife, Mary. She's on the public relations board at St. Bart's Hospital. She was actually in charge of helping to arrange this evening's event," Molly breathlessly supplied.

She went to take another sip but was disheartened to find her champagne glass was already low. How had that happened?

"And one of the ones lucky enough to get to enjoy it instead of working it," Mary laughed. She tilted her head at Fahim in a winning gesture. "How did you meet our Molly?"

Molly felt rather warm at the moment. Fahim was still holding on to her elbow, pressing his frame into her as if they belonged together. A bobby pin was working itself loose. She could feel it starting to slip free of its moorings but she wasn't going to be the boob who tried to fix her hair in the middle of a Gala.

She felt herself sink deeper into Fahim as he and Mary spoke. She was very pleased when the server came by with new glasses, Fahim handed her one and she watched John's face darken.

_John has a very expressive face,_ Molly thought. _Wonder it hasn't gotten him and Sherlock in more trouble…_

"And really it was the oddest way to meet your future husband but still- quite romantic," Mary gazed up at John, her face warm and affectionate. John was looking back down at her as well, and it was rather romantic and beautiful even if he was wearing a leather vest and a white billowy shirt and she was wearing earmuff styled braids.

"Ah." Fahim murmured, "Very charming. But how did you meet Molly, did you say?"

Mary laughed, nervously, she looked up to John, her face tight but smiling. With a small effort managed, "Oh, through John. You see they knew each other –"

"Through me actually," interrupted a familiar voice and Molly found herself once again surprised to see Sherlock Holmes.

A silence fell through the small group as the band started the next song, Molly found Fahim had tensed and his hand fell off her elbow. She looked around at him to see him staring intently at Sherlock.

"Sherlock Holmes," Fahim greeted. "It has been a long time."

"Not so long, Fahim," Sherlock quipped. "Why when was it I last saw you in Karachi? Few years ago now, wasn't it?"

Molly had the feeling she was missing a key part of the story, but she had done what she been asked. She had properly distracted the target and allowed Sherlock time to….

Well he was supposed to be searching his rooms but this was a museum…and there wasn't a hotel in the vicinity-

"What have you been up to then?" Molly asked, facing Sherlock, her head tilted to the side and looking up at him through her thickly lined lashes.

She saw John's eyes widen a bit as he looked at her then to Sherlock before falling to Fahim. Mary had the tight British socialite smile on her face but it looked like it was about to crack and fall off. Sherlock looked at her, his cold blue eyes regarding her with his usual frank assessment.

He cocked his head back towards Fahim and with the tight lipped smile that was as equally dangerous as it was alluring, answered "Conferring with an old mutual acquaintance of mine and Fahim's."

Fahim's eyes narrowed at Sherlock and he glanced down at Molly before continuing, "Lovely to see you again and I am sad to cut this short but I believe I am supposed to lead the toast for this evening, I should be getting on-"

"Fahim, you really don't suppose I would alert a terrorist cell to your location in the middle of a London social event, do you? Come now," Sherlock chided, "How about a game, for old time's sake?" Fahim fidgeted, his fingers flicking low on his hip. Molly raised an eyebrow at Sherlock as he focused his eyes on Fahim.

"Judging from your recent appearances in the tabloids, I would think your influx of wealth would have been from an inheritance. However, since I already know your family to be firmly in debt and hiding it by stealing money from certain corporations- certain corporations which all have ties to the Middle East terrorist movement, I wouldn't have to assess the state of your clothing."

"Worn, older, most likely pawn and borrowed. Unlike Ms. Hooper's gown and her jewels. Which a broke man with a keen eye would be able to spot as authentic pearls and diamonds," Molly watched Fahim's gaze shift back to the tiara on her head and she felt a rush of cold despite how warm she was," - worth quite a bit, and shining so prettily, a young woman on her own- I know your type Fahim. A man who preys on easy targets- ones who can be bended to your will, twisted to your desires and which you leave after you take what you need from them. As your ex-wife was no doubt made aware, when you stranded her in Egypt with no passport and no funds."

Fahim was pale now, and he took a step towards Sherlock, his cool façade slipping as his hand descended to his gun, "I'll have you know, Holmes-"

"Oh yes, the guns. Real. But not loaded. The powder and bullets necessary for those are not effortlessly found nor easily purchased by a man wanted by Interpol for questioning in a few highly questionable business deals and connections to a few terrorist acts."

"Now, Fahim. There are a few gentlemen and a woman who have a few questions for you. I think you will find her…familiar."

"The Woman…" Fahim breathed, his eyes darting towards the doors at the other end of the Museum, but he was cut off. Sherlock stood before him with a ghost of a smile on his lips, while the entire British society lay between him and the door.

Molly felt a curious sense of disappointment settle in her as she continued to drink the champagne. She watched the men before her as if tennis volleys were being exchanged instead of deadly accusations.

"Would you rather take your chances with Interpol or the Woman who you tried to have killed?" Sherlock asked, eyes never departing his prey. "Your choice."

Fahim growled, deep in his throat. He seemed to have forgotten Molly was beside him, but as Mary reached out as if to drag her over to them, he snapped his gaze back to her.

"You little trollop," he hissed, grasping her by the elbow, jostling her champagne from her hands. She felt it hit the side of her dress and made a mew of distress more at the spill on the dress than at the pain.

"Right," Sherlock sighed, almost disappointedly. He reached his arm up and made a small gesture. Two members of the band broke off from the lively jive they were playing and quickly approached the group.

Fahim was growling insults and threats at her but she just kept her eyes fixed on Sherlock, wondering what he was doing. It wasn't until Sherlock stepped forward, reaching out towards her that she looked back at Fahim.

It wasn't until she saw his arm descending towards her upturned face, she realized he was about to hit her.

He didn't get the chance. Sherlock stopped the arm's descent with his left hand before issuing a sharp jab to his chin, knocking Fahim neatly into the arms of the approaching musicians.

Without missing a beat they nodded at Sherlock and started to drag Fahim towards a small serving door hidden in the column work, his cowboy hat sliding down to cover his face as he slid unconsciously away.

"Mycroft will be disappointed. He was hoping to try him for war crimes," Sherlock mused, his eyes flashing, lip curling upwards as the body of Fahim disappeared from sight.

Molly felt reality start to slowly descend again and careful not to lick her lips at the risk of smudging her lipstick, she reached up to adjust the bobby pin which had been threatening to come loose all evening.

"Right then," she said, "Is that all then?"

Sherlock looked down at her, as if he forgotten she was there. She cocked her head at him, raising her eyebrow in question.

"Is that all you needed me for then, Sherlock?" She repeated.

He narrowed his brow at her before giving a small nod. She nodded back in emphatic agreement.

"Right," she turned to John and Mary, "I think I'll be going now. Don't be a stranger you two, lovely to see you again."

And she pushed past them all into the party and towards home.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note**

_Here we are at the last chapter- thank you everyone for you reading and if you left a review- well you personally just made my day. _

_Here's the conclusion of Molly's rather odd day. _

_(Still don't own anything)_

Standing before the mirror, Molly sighed. Her hair was falling out of its elegant twist, her eye makeup had smudged to raccoon eyes and her lipstick was almost completely gone. Her face was shiny from the champagne and her dress had a large stain on the left hip from her earlier spill.

She looked a fright.

She had gotten drunk. Off three (_or so_) glasses of champagne, which was unsurprising considering she hadn't eaten a thing all day in her state of nerves.

As if sensing the day was almost over, a sudden musical noise emanated from her clutch. Molly turned from the mirror to fumble for her mobile.

Most likely Mycroft or one of his people calling to get the jewels and dress back- it was an unfamiliar number so she flipped it open.

"Yes, hello?" She snapped.

"Ms. Hooper?" A feminine voice answered, Molly couldn't place it but she was tired and entirely through with these people and their games.

"Yes, look I'll be happy to return everything to you tomorrow- will that suffice?"

"I'm sorry, I don't think you understand-"

Huffing in impatience, Molly interrupted her, "No, I do see. You lot get the idea to use someone's job as leverage to get them to perform a role in some ridiculous global farce, dress them up in diamonds and pearls and use them as bait. Very clever, very clever. I understand Sherlock volunteered me, and you know, I'll get to him."

"But while I am on the line with the British government- I would just to like to say, using pathologists as bait to wealthy philanthropist terrorists is a terrible risk and one you should never have taken- furthermore, I will not be voting for any of the current party in the upcoming elections and if I can figure out how to get Mycroft Holmes out of whatever office he actually to holds-" 

"Molly!" Laughed the voice, rich and deep in her amusement, "Molly, calm down. I'm afraid I'm not calling from the British government, in fact, I'm the one they are trying to locate at the moment as I have a– how did you say it? Wealthy Philanthropist Terrorist? " She paused, laughing again. Molly felt her throat go dry, "in my interrogation quarters at the moment. But before I started to have my fun…I wanted to call and thank you for your role in tonight's …farce."

Molly didn't respond, her grip tightened on her phone.

"In fact, I was watching your performance this evening, and I was duly impressed. Sherlock of course was furious I had you volunteered but I needed someone I could trust and he trusts you."

"In fact, when I was originally toying with the idea of using Mary Watson, I just couldn't get past the uncertainty of her. She would have done it for her husband, that I have no doubt. But I wanted someone to do it for something that mattered, and you Molly, you like me have a passion for something, our line of work."

"So, I called my contact, suggested your name and Mycroft danced to my tune quite nicely. I suspect he trusts you due to your closed mouth in the past, especially when it comes to matters regarding me, who he had suspected dead up until tonight's events. But I digress. This is a thank you, for providing me with the man who almost succeeded in having me executed. "

"I didn't do it for you or for either of the Holmes," Molly replied, her voice breaking but she continued. "I was forced to do this, and thank you for letting me know who is responsible for the threat of possibly losing the one thing in this world I care about, Ms. Adler. Now, I am going to hang up, go to bed and wake up and pretend this never happened. And I am going to go to work tomorrow and the next day and the day after that because that is all I have. That is my life. And if you _ever_ try to threaten me again, I will make it a personal mission of mine to make sure you are apprehended by the British government."

A silence greeted her and before fear could make an appearance and cause her apologize or back down; Molly went to hang up.

"Molly," the voice responded, "Your career is not the only thing you have. It is a part of you; it is a passion that you can't have taken away from you. But you do have people who care for you. For the very passions and loyalty which you showed tonight."

And the call went dead.

Molly turned her phone off, took off the pearls and the tiara, kicked off her flats and curled up in the blankets on the couch, watching EastEnders and drifting off as she wondered how she was ever going to get all the mascara off.

A loud metallic scratching wormed itself into Molly's subconscious.

She sat up, head fuzzy and a mouth full of what felt like cotton balls to stare at the front door which was the busiest tonight than it had ever been in her entire time she had lived here.

She reached for the phone, planning on actually calling Greg this time when the scratching abruptly ended.

Confused, she sat, head tilted to the side, trying to determine if she should go back to sleep or get up and wash up when the door swung open.

She was in the process of opening her mouth to scream when the familiar pale blue eyes of Sherlock Holmes met hers over the top of the couch.

"What are you doing?" He asked.

"What am I doing?" Molly repeated, looking at him in dumb disbelief. "I was sleeping and then someone decides he needs to break and enter at- oh, it already four in the morning? When did that happen?"

"Your hair looks atrocious," he said, his arms folded behind him, the borrowed hat and trench coat from before still on but wetter. He looked like he had walked through the rain to get here; puddles were forming at his feet as he dripped all over her floor.

Molly shook her head in defeat, "Yes, marvelous deduction skills, Sherlock." She stretched, rolling her back to get the kinks out from the couch. Mid-stretch she rationed what he was here about, "There's a bathrobe in the next room. The change of clothes that you left here after you had me stitch you up from the diamond case are laundered and hanging in the back of the wardrobe. I'll put a kettle on, shall I?"

"I wasn't using you."

Molly stopped, turning to look at him," Sorry?"

"Tonight. I didn't know they were involving you until she called me. She told me you would be arriving in a limo with Mycroft and she had plans for you. I arrived in time to simply step in. From there, I changed their plan to better suit mine."

"Oh," Molly said thickly. Her mouth tasted awful. She knew half her makeup had rubbed off on the couch cushion but here she was, at four in the morning talking to the only man in the world that made her feel so bloody awkward.

"Which was to get you out of there before you had to spend a moment exchanging air with the likes of Fahim. However, when we arrived, I noticed her and I moved to intercept her before Mycroft could. You see-" 

"I know," Molly interrupted, "She called earlier. Thanked me."

"I see," Sherlock said, nodding slowly.

"I told her to…well I didn't threaten her but I made her understand I was not happy about the threat of removing me from St. Bart's if I did not cooperate-"

"That shouldn't have happened," he said, frowning. "Your position there has nothing to do with-"

"It has everything to do with you Sherlock," Molly sighed. "If it wasn't for you, I would just be another pathologist. Instead, I'm the preferred pathologist for Scotland Yard and an occasional source for John Watson and Sherlock Holmes Consulting Detectives. And now apparently a form of bait for terrorists."

"Do you not enjoy the relationships which stem from our understanding?" He asked, his eyes were unreadable again and Molly sank down into the wooden chair in front of the window. The heater blew hot air onto her back and her shoulders slouched forward in exhaustion. Debates with Sherlock Holmes could go on for hours or end in seconds, you never could tell.

"Typically yes. I am grateful to have Mrs. Hudson as a friend, being able to laugh with Greg instead of being intimidated by him, having John and Mary over for a cuppa- I'm very grateful-"

"And me?"

"What about you, Sherlock?" Molly asked, lifting her eyes back to him. "I know you tolerate me. And I know you trust me, you appreciate my ability to procure things and even my expertise but I am not your friend, I'm your pathologist."

"You are though."

"Sorry, I'm what?"

"Molly," he sighed, and his hat tilted forward, causing him to push it back out of his face and he took a step towards the kitchen, eyes locked on the window behind her as if pulling the words from the air.

"I count you as one of my…- you were the only one I could turn to when Moriarty threatened everything I cared about and it was during that time I realized how useful it was to keep some people at a distance."

"You were not threatened due to Moriarty's preconceived notions about your importance to me based on my prior treatment of you, so it stood to reason other sociopaths would do the same, and thus I have continued to treat you as I did before but surely, you know…you know that's not the case?"

"Wait," she puzzled, trying to follow his wording, "what case are we talking about?"

"The case of what I'm to do with you," he calmly replied.

"You are an efficient and trustworthy colleague but if our understanding is causing work related issues or a fraction in our friendship, I believe we should discontinue-"

"Friendship?" Molly asked, a small smile tugging at her lips.

"Yes, well, I do believe I just stated-"

"We're friends?" Molly laughed, smiling warmly at him now. A brief emotion tugged across his face and then Molly found him striding towards her and she started, "Oh Sherlock, that's wonderful, I-"

And then his arms wrapped around her waist and his lips descended on hers . Molly had to make sure to breath.

She exhaled in the scent of him, felt the wetness of his jacket, tasted the bitterness of the scotch he had on his tongue, heard the rasping of his stubble against her cheek and blinked open her eyes to make sure it was really happening.

After a moment, his lips left hers and she felt herself settle back down on to the floor, strangely unsteady on her own two feet.

"Your lips are bruised and swelling," he noted, eyes flickering down to the said feature in question.

"Yes, well," Molly mumbled happily, "I suppose they are."

"They look…good like that."

And then, he spun on his heel and left, the door banging close behind him as Molly's knees gave out and she sat back down, hard in the chair.

"Oh."

Author's Notes

_Thank you all so much for reading! _

_This was my first actual piece of fanfiction ever- and it was inspired by the Ladies of Sherlock over at Tumblr and their monthly prompts. I wrote this before Series 3 aired and I have to admit- when writing this, I desperately wanted to make Mary a relatable character and then when I finally got to see Amanda Abbington's performance- well I like canon Mary – I really, really like her and can't wait to write something which she features in with more heavily. _

_Fahim is completely made up because I could and I wanted to a dashing English accented man in western wear. Even if he was a villain. _

_Also, a large thank you to soyeahso- who will probably never see this thank you but who was kind enough to email me and give me a very tips and thoughts on the work. It made me want to continue to go back and better it over and over again. _

_Also, a large thank you to katdemon1895- who left a lovely review pointing out that I had kinks to work out but was supportive and constructive in her review. I was so appreciative- I promptly printed out my story, reformatted and reworked it- because the review let me realize, people read this- people took a moment to review it and I owed those kind souls the best work I could produce._

_Thank you for reading again- and I hope to write more and for you to be able to read more._

_See my profile for my tumblr, where I will occasionally post rough drafts and the like. _


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